By the time the cartons are empty, Mayhem has asked Willow for his birth chart. He insists it’s for business purposes, but exactly nobody believes him.
“What time were you born?” Willow asks.
Mayhem frowns at Dad. “You know?”
Dad takes a sip of coffee. “Unfortunately, yes.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means your mother screamed for eighteen hours.”
Mayhem winces. “Could’ve left that part out.”
“You asked.”
“I asked for a time.”
“Three twenty-six in the morning,” Dad says.
Willow nods thoughtfully. “And the date?”
“January fifteenth, nineteen-ninety-two.”
Willow takes out her phone and begins typing. “Place of birth?”
“Right here, baby,” Mayhem says. “Local boy, born and bred.”
She adds it, then waits. He waits too.
“Well?” he asks.
“It takes longer than twelve seconds,” Will
